


true body

by gaspille



Category: Borderlands (Video Games)
Genre: Hospital Sex, M/M, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Post-Surgery, Why Is Jack?, jack is very attracted to his own trauma, timothy is very sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-23
Updated: 2019-04-23
Packaged: 2020-01-24 12:09:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18571177
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gaspille/pseuds/gaspille
Summary: "No, no, don’t get up,” Jack laughs. “This’ll be super quick.” A hand floats to Timothy’s jawline, holding him tight between the tips of his fingernails. “Just gotta make sure we’re still identical. Would hate to think we branded you for nothing.”





	true body

**Author's Note:**

> [title](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EVFBTqGRjOE)

Timothy wakes anew, his body sweat-stuck to a starchy hospital bed. Half the world has gone dark; lit only by a white-hot pain in his deadened eyeball. There’s a mess of gauze wrapped tight around his face, as if tasked with pinning back meat and blood.

“They got you on the good stuff, huh?” Jack looms over him, dominating the focus of his good eye. His smile is made of edges; lips pulled all the way back. Nerves buzzing, Timothy mirrors it, and his skin stretches and cracks apart beneath the gauze. He tries to touch his face, only to find his arms and legs tethered to the sides of the bed. There’s an IV stuck in his arm that he barely remembers going in, and it nearly comes loose as he tears at the restraints.

“No, no, don’t get up,” Jack laughs. “This’ll be super quick.” A hand floats to Timothy’s jawline, holding him tight between the tips of his fingernails. “Just gotta make sure we’re still identical. Would hate to think we branded you for nothing.”

Jack unwraps him far too quickly; his exposed face left raw and weeping under the harsh hospital lights. “Holy crap,” he whistles as he unwraps the last of the gauze, dumping it into a pile on the floor. He drops onto the bed, and Timothy’s face prickles as he leans in for a better look, the alcohol heavy on his breath. “That looks like it hurts.”

Without taking his eyes off Timothy, Jack swipes a handheld mirror from the bedside table and shoves it in front of his face. A flash of angry colour bursts out from his reflection, and Timothy shuts his good eye before they sharpen into anything that could resemble him.

“Hey, would you stop— hey, buddy? C’mon. Don’t ruin this for me.” There’s a bloody energy coiled underneath Jack’s voice, same as when he’d had the doctors strap Timothy to the operating table. Timothy grasps for the rage he’d felt then, the graphic revenge he’d promised Jack as they fried through his eyeball, but finds nothing.

“Please, Jack…” Timothy’s tongue lies heavy at the bottom of his mouth, his throat rough. “Not now.”

Jack’s thumb digs into his eyebrow, wrenching his eyelid open. “Yes, now. Am I going crazy, or is it a little wonky?” 

Timothy tries to zone out as much as possible, to disappear inside himself like he’d learnt on Elpis, but his reflection tethers him to reality. A crude vault symbol blisters a shining blue across his face, the lashes around his milky eyeball burnt away. It looks so much worse on him than it did on Jack.

“Well? You think it looks alright?”

Timothy blinks, his reflection wavering before him. He drops his gaze to the hand holding the mirror, zeroing in on the dark specks beneath Jack’s fingernails. Dangerous seconds pass before he opens his mouth, when he’s sure his voice won’t break. Handsome Jack _does not cry._

“It’s… it’s fine.”

“Yeah, maybe.” Jack drops the mirror back onto the bedside table. “Wait ’til we get the mask on you. You’re gonna look so cool.” 

“Sure, Jack,” says Timothy, “can you untie me? I’m not going to… I won’t do anything this ti—”

“You know, my other doubles aren’t nearly as good as you.” A hand flattens across Timothy’s belly, Jack’s fingers digging into the hard muscle underneath the hospital gown. “Which’s why we tested this out on them first. Turns out, you use the wrong amount of eridium on a human face and things get very… soupy.”

Wide awake, Timothy stills as Jack’s gaze settles back on him. “They all begged and cried, and, get this - one dude screamed so hard he _pissed himself._ Well, after his eyeball exploded, but still. Man up, y’know?”

“Is he still alive?”

“Who gives a crap?” Jack reaches out and touches Timothy’s bottom lip with the tip of his thumb. “You, on the other hand, took it like a real… like a hero. Made me proud.”

The silence between them is long; the words easy to come by, painful to say out loud. “Thank you, Jack,” he mumbles finally, and fingers dig into his kneecap, Jack a blur of movement crashing towards him. 

Lips, too cool to be organic press against his. A tongue slips into his mouth and Timothy bites down before he remembers who it belongs to. Jack draws back with a hiss, cupping his mouth with one hand.

“Oh, god, I’m sorry,” says Timothy. Jack doesn’t react, but it’s easy to imagine the rage boiling beneath the mask, and the restraints itch around Timothy’s joints.

A smile breaks across Jack’s face. “Yeah, ok, my bad.” Lowering his hand, he swipes the tip of his tongue with his finger, laughing when it comes back wet with blood. “Well, _our_ bad. You know what you look like, don’t you?”

 _I don’t, I swear to god,_ Timothy wants to say, but the words won’t come. He lowers his eyes, and his gaze sticks to Jack’s abdomen; at the hardness straining against the inside of his pants.

The fear that overtakes him is almost unfamiliar, missing since the early days of his contract; long before Jack and the good people of Elpis shot and burnt and maimed such reactions out of him. The bed trembles back and forth as he struggles, and Jack’s smile grows manic.

“You don’t have to pretend,” says Jack, “I see how you look at me, even though you’re my clone. Hey, don’t be embarrassed. You’re only human.”

Timothy flinches as a hand creeps underneath his gown, spit-slick fingers coiling around his cock. “You don’t have to do this,” he says, for all the good it does. Jack rolls his fist, grip rough and uneven. Clearly, he’s never touched another man before, yet it sparks something inside of Timothy anyway. 

“Please stop.” If Jack doesn’t kill him when he’s through with him, Nisha surely will.

“Yeah, really finding it hard to believe that one.” There’s a line of blood smeared across Jack’s teeth, and Timothy wishes he’d torn his whole tongue off. The grip around his cock tightens and just like that, months of built up self-control break off in clumps inside his brain.

“Jack, you piece of shit, _get the fuck off of me._ ”

In any other scenario, Jack would beat him to death with his own bedpan, but in this one, he just laughs. “ _Language._ I know you’re not feeling 100%, but I am still your boss.” Letting go of Timothy’s cock, Jack leans over to fiddle with the IV bag hanging above the bed. “And you need to calm down. Don’t wanna hurt yourself, do you?”

“What are you doing?” Timothy asks, and the answer comes to him seconds afterwards. Liquid glue collapses through the IV and into his bloodstream, weighing him down into the mattress. All feeling in his limbs floats away, leaving him with the phantom memory of Jack’s hand on his cock, and the dull singe across his face.

Vision perforated by the drugs, Jack wavers in Timothy’s good eye, his mask meting in golden streaks down his neck. He pats Timothy’s shoulder and the movement is choppy, as if he’s only a poor recording of himself, not standing right there in flesh and bone and bloody teeth.

“I don’t want this.” The words are barely intelligible; slurred and alien, as if Timothy’s screaming them across dead space.

“No, but you need it, don’t you?” Jack’s tone is measured, clinical, but there’s a hitch to it, barely contained glee lurking beneath the surface — like a kid taking apart an insect underneath a microscope for the first time. He settles between Timothy’s legs, folding his hospital gown over his chest. Timothy’s cheeks burn at the sight his own cock, now half-hard against his stomach, even though they’re well and truly identical now.

Well, almost identical, Timothy realizes with mounting horror as Jack unzips himself, hooking his yellow briefs beneath his balls. Jack smirks at him, stroking his cock lazily.

“Yeah, this’s gonna hurt, babe. A lot.” He glances at the IV bag, then at the heap of gauze on the floor. “But don’t worry. You can take it.”

Jack shoves through him like a fishhook; Timothy twitching like a worm beneath him. His abdomen becomes a black hole of pain for some brief, excruciating seconds before the drugs swallow him fully, and then there’s no discomfort, even as Jack begins to pound into him.

“You’re so goddamn tight.” Jack’s eyes are closed, his eyebrows pinched, as if struggling to recall something from the EchoNet. “This your first time?” The last half of the sentence has a certain hardness to it, so Timothy grits his teeth and nods. It’s not a lie; it’s his first time with this new face, sure, with this new body and name. His first time as Jack.

Jack reaches over to grip the headboard, forcing himself even deeper inside, and Timothy yelps as his cock brushes against his prostate, his stomach knotting. “Hey, keep your voice down,” says Jack, leaning down to lick an uneven stripe across Timothy’s neck. “You want the doctors to come in and find you like this?”

A panic rises deep inside of Timothy, too far away to hold onto, to act on, even as he cock hardens fully against his stomach at the thought, pulsing with each thrust through the medicated haze. Feeling the hardness brush against his stomach, Jack pulls back, tugging off the cuff around Timothy’s right wrist. 

“Touch yourself,” Jack’s voice is low as he maneuvers Timothy’s hand into a fist around his cock. “Get yourself off for me.”

 _This isn’t your fault,_ Timothy reminds himself as he obeys, his hand so numb it could be a stranger’s. _None of it is._ It’s Jack, after all, who turned him from a good person into a good imitation of one.

Timothy comes quietly, his voice strangled, and for a second he could be anywhere else in the universe, a faceless man inside him. One with a kind voice, nothing like his own. But only for a second.

Eyes narrowed, Jack changes the rhythm, interrupting his post-orgasm haze. He forgoes half-baked praises for a new mantra, fucking Timothy in time to goddamn bitch, goddamn bitch, goddamn little siren bitch. His mask strains and relaxes as he moves inside Timothy; expression wavering between anger and arousal, and Timothy isn’t sure which one of them he hates more. He deserves bad shit for what he did on Elpis, yeah, but it can’t be this— to writhe and come on command as like he does every other little thing Jack commands him to. Over and over and over again — until Timothy dies, or his contract expires, or his face explodes like confetti on one of Jack’s whims. Whatever comes first.

A delirious shitfuck of an idea comes to him then, worming its way deep into his brain — something so strong he can’t blame it on the drugs. He moves without thinking, his free hand tingling as it struggles into the air, fingers coming to rest on Jack’s chin. 

In one clumsy stroke, Timothy traces the vault symbol over Jack’s mask, and Jack stops mid-thrust. It’s disgusting, the way he looks back at him with drunken emotion. Like it means something it doesn’t. Like he can’t decide whether to kiss Timothy again, or kill him.

Primal instincts win out. Jack seizes Timothy by the hair, twisting the roots into twinging knots. “Now why would you go and do that, hmm? Right after I made you come your brains out?”

“Because I fucking hate you.” His nails break against Jack’s mask as Timothy claws at him, desperate to do some damage, however small. Something that proves he stood up for himself, at least once in his life.

“You are me.” The words are punctuated with laughter; deep and ugly, as Jack slaps his hand down across Timothy’s face. Manicured nails dig into the scar tissue, the inflamed skin twisting white-hot around them. “Rule number one, kiddo; no one touches the mask.”

Something wet tears open inside his cheek and Timothy screams without sound, the words choked in his throat. 

“Thought you knew better,” says Jack, and the bastard sounds almost disappointed. 

He takes forever to finish; keeps going on and on and on until finally he isn’t, leaving Timothy open, filthy. The bed frame squeaks as Jack crawls over him, his knees digging into either side of his neck, cock dark-red and twitching in his fist. Timothy closes his eyes, whining at the liquid warmth that splatters his cheek seconds later, the sting blissfully muted by the drugs. Its only humiliation that burns through him, skin flushing from the raw sounds of skin-against-skin as Jack milks himself through orgasm.

Next time — because there will be a next time, he’s sure of it, it’d be better just to lie there and take it. He should’ve known Jack wouldn’t kill him, wouldn’t let him go so easily.

Yawning, Jack climbs off of him. He tugs his zipper, and peers at Timothy’s face, his expression placid. “Really wish you hadn’t made me do that. Supposed to keep it dry for at least a week.” He reaches over and rummages around in the bedside drawer. With a triumphant grin, he retrieves a packet of disinfectant wipes, grabs a handful, and attacks Timothy’s with them.

He hums as he works works, as if painting, not scrubbing off come and blood and fried skin in equal measure. Timothy’s face feels unbearably open, as though scraped over with a butterknife. Tears bubble in his good eye, and before he can wipe them away they’re sliding down his cheeks and Jack’s skin turns nearly white under the mask.

“Hey, hey, c’mon… we talked about this.” Through the tears, Jack is a blur, his body haloed in bright light. “You see me crying when that bitch melted my face?” 

Jack takes Timothy’s hand in his and fits his wrist back into its cuff. “The murder-suicide stuff you’re feeling, it’s normal, trust me.” Jack collapses onto the bed beside him and dabs at Timothy’s face with his thumb. “You’ll feel better tomorrow.”

He stays with Timothy until he falls asleep; his gaze empty, twitching. In Timothy’s dreams he’s back on Elpis, fighting the sentinel again, its many faces half-blind and dripping with gore. Like his, and Jack’s. He sleeps for a long time.


End file.
